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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23394718">You're a dream, darling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate'>Somedrunkpirate</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley has to process Aziraphale's not-death, Depression, Dissociation, Fear, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, PTSD!Crowley, Trauma, it doesn't go well, not actually major character death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 16:22:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,094</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23394718</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two very important facts:<br/>1) Aziraphale is dead.<br/>2) None of this is real. </p><p>-----</p><p>Crowley’s throat tightens. “My angel,” he says. “My best friend. He’s dead, you know.” </p><p>Aziraphale blinks and then blood drains from his face. “No, no. Crowley. No. I’m here. I’m right in front of you.” </p><p>“I know,” Crowley says. “Isn’t it amazing, what a dream can do?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>167</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>775</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Amazing Good Omens, My faves - Good Omens Whump</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You're a dream, darling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Look this is why you can't trust people who have written inception fic. I'm sorry for the angst but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless ;)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley hadn’t noticed at first, but that isn’t all that surprising. </p><p>The wrongness did not rear its ugly head until it was already far too late to escape its looming maw. </p><p>Aziraphale had kept it away, left it to whine in the shadows, not yet strong enough to defy the eternal light of an angel with a true heart. But it had only been a temporary remedy— a momentary mercy in which Crowley could believe, for the first time in his life, that he’d some something completely and utterly right. That he had been the hero for once, together with Aziraphale and the kids. </p><p>They’d saved the world. </p><p>“We must celebrate,” Aziraphale had said, once they’d stepped over the threshold into Crowley’s Soho apartment for the second time. Unlike the first, where it had been quiet between them, only the creaking of the door forming a question on how to go on. </p><p>That had been just after it happened— the not quite apocalypse. It had been a moment of silence, yet togetherness. Of peace and yet fear. Fear of Hell, of Heaven, and the dangers they would put themselves in very soon. </p><p>But they had succeeded there too: tricking those who wished to punish them for doing the right thing. The angels and the devils who had equally lost to one of their own would scuttle back into the darkness and the light respectively, so that Crowley and Aziraphale could remain what they always had been; wanderers of the Earth. </p><p>Crowley had taken it as a sign. He’d been good, this once, and they’re being rewarded for it. </p><p>Of course, he should have known better. He should have been watching for the next trail to come. There always is one. </p><p>But he hadn’t— he’d been distracted. Enthralled. Aziraphale the cause, of course. <em>Of course. </em></p><p>Aziraphale hadn’t left his side since— since the base. Even though they’d had been forcibly separated by heaven and hell, Crowley had stood in the face of an archangel while carrying all that Aziraphale was and had never once felt alone. To <em>be</em> him, was to be with him, in a way. </p><p>So they’d been together, all that time. Just a brush of fabric removed from touch. “We must celebrate,” Aziraphale had said, and they had— wine flowing, music crooning, and there had been that silence again. Togetherness. Crowley had wanted nothing more. </p><p>But then Aziraphale had leaned forward, rosy cheeks almost too perfect, his forehead wrinkled in careful thought. He’d said, hushed, wide-eyed and hesitant, “Is it over now, my dear?” </p><p>And Crowley had taken his hand and said, “Yes.”</p><p>Of all the lies he’d ever told Aziraphale, that must have been the worst. </p><p>————</p><p>Crowley is so ungodly <em>tired</em>. He tries to keep his eyes from blinking shut, staring to nowhere in particular, unseeing. </p><p>There is a shift in the haze of his vision, something slow and lumbering coming over his vision and he can’t— he can’t blink it away. Crowley shakes his head, trying to— he doesn’t remember as a sudden rush of dizziness perishes all thoughts. It’s like any movement slings them into orbit, rocketing farther and farther away. </p><p>“Dear.” Warmth against his temple. “You are truly exhausted, aren’t you?” </p><p>Crowley huffs, leaning into the touch. He must have fallen asleep somewhere between the wine and the talking, and Aziraphale is there— catching him. Crowley takes a breath. </p><p>“Come on,” Aziraphale says, fond. “Up you go.” </p><p>Crowley tries to follow the movement of Aziraphale’s sure hands— sturdy, stronger than he lets on — wishing himself not to be such a burden. An old note of sorrow pulses through him as that thought catches on a string of a violin built from insecurity and self-hatred. The one that only sings when he’s too tired to silence it. </p><p>He must have tried to say something, because Aziraphale shushes him and pats his back. Aziraphale is— he’s speaking. Telling him something. Crowley strains to listen. He can’t miss a word. </p><p>“… saw this coming, you know. Stopping time isn’t a small feat, and certainly not on the precipice of the end of the world. I thought you would feel the effects right after, but I suppose you postponed your collapse until it was all well and truly over.” </p><p>Crowley blinks his eyes open from where they’ve rebelliously closed. The darkness is sweet, a balm to his aching temples, but he has to witness this: Aziraphale taking care of him so gently. </p><p>It takes a moment to recognize his room without the light coming from the windows. Never in his life-time living here he’d ever closed the blinds, finding peace in watching the lights of the cars as they shone into his room. Aziraphale must have miracled them closed, as he had not strayed from his side, and he’s now grabbing a blanket off the floor from where Crowley had left it a few days ago. </p><p>Aziraphale had lead him to the side of the bed, and Crowley realises belatedly that he’s meant to go into it. Crowley gathers the last of his energies to lie horizontally, but in the process he encounters a disastrous obstacle: his shoes. </p><p>Crowley makes a noise, staring at his shoes with a level of confusion he usually reserves for Aziraphale’s incomprehensible archiving system. </p><p>Aziraphale is next to him within seconds. “What is the matter? —Ah, shoes. I see.” </p><p>His voice is infused with a warm chuckle that pushes against the cold slowly seeping into Crowley’s bones. He lists to the side, towards Aziraphale, like he can wallow in his light and banish whatever infernal exhaustion is causing him to be such a useless drab of a demon. </p><p>But Aziraphale is gone, and for one heart-stopping moment the room swallows Crowley whole. Cold and darkness war for attention and he’s about to use his last breath to yell Aziraphale’s name when—</p><p>He feels it. </p><p>Aziraphale isn’t gone. He’s just gone from the spot beside him. He’s gone from that spot because he’s kneeling in front of Crowley, carefully tugging the shoes of his feet. </p><p>The ice, still lapping at Crowley’s extremities, slowly melts away as he watches Aziraphale fussing beneath him. The fragility of it swallows Crowley once more, but in a different way: His throat tightens, and he feels something well up in the corner of his eye. He shudders.  To be cared for, to be trusted. To be—</p><p>Aziraphale looks up, lips blossoming into a smile, with cherry blossom stains on his cheeks to match. He seems, happy— soft. Crowley almost reaches out to touch but he’s too afraid that the ice will come back and his hands will transfer it to Aziraphale— to poison him would be his greatest sin. </p><p>So Crowley does nothing, just watches, like a moth to a flame, preferring the burn to the cold winter of loneliness. </p><p>“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says, “You are completely into the deep end. I’ve never seen you this way.” </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Crowley says— or tries to. He’s sure he mumbles something approximately correct because Aziraphale shakes his head sternly. </p><p>“Nonsense,” he says, and in that little word there is a whole argument, one Crowley is too tired to fight against. So he lets it go and lets Aziraphale believe there is nothing to apologise for, while there is so many. He just can’t think of them right now. </p><p>“A bit of rest and you’ll be right as rain,” Aziraphale continues, and gently pushes him against the mattress. Crowley allows himself to be tucked in, feeling warm and cold at the same time. </p><p>And then it is done. Aziraphale stands there for a moment, eyes searching Crowley’s face as his smile softens, and a hint of concern forms between his brows. He pats the blankets straight, fussing unnecessarily, and then heaves a sigh. </p><p>“Well,” he says, bobbling a bit on the balls of his feet. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He gives another smile and nods, almost as if he’s convincing himself of something. “I’ll be right outside if you need me— you don’t, of course, but just in case—“ </p><p>He nods again and turns on his heel, walking just fast enough for Crowley to wonder if he’s fleeing the room. Crowley’s hand reaches out almost subconsciously, as if he could catch Aziraphale’s wrist and— and keep him here? He clearly doesn’t want to. </p><p>By the time Aziraphale closes the door behind him, Crowley’s back on the wave of exhaustion. It laps the the sea on his feet, ice cold water pushing and pulling, drawing him in deeper and deeper until he can barely think. </p><p>But there is something in the water, and the last conscious thought that fills Crowley’s mind is complete and unrepentant fear. </p><p>————</p><p>Aziraphale leaves the following morning. </p><p>Just for a moment, on Crowley’s insistence. </p><p>“You haven’t seen the shop yourself yet,” he says, pushing gently against Aziraphale’s back, nudging him to the door. He needs Aziraphale to see—to check. Something is feeling wrong and Aziraphale needs to go, needs to make everything okay again. </p><p>Crowley had been dreaming, you see. Dreaming of raging fire, of endless despair and falling books covered in ash. He’s shaking still, a little, on the inside, and Aziraphale must have noticed because he’s pushing back—not literally, but side stepping, hesitant. </p><p>“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asks, his lips half way into a pout. “You were so exhausted yesterday dear. The bookshop can wait.” </p><p>Crowley dredges up a smile from somewhere dark. “Thought I would never heard those words from you. I’m fine, Angel, just a tad tired still but you know how it is with saving the world. It is hard on your muscles.”</p><p>“I’m sure it is,” Aziraphale says, with a hint of exasperation, but finally he relents. “If you’re certain then. I’ve been wanting to pop in for a moment, get a lay of the land.” </p><p>“Exactly what I thought. Come now, don’t dawdle, I’ll have tea ready when you return.” </p><p>Aziraphale sends him a smile, “How gentlemanly of you. You could almost call it—” </p><p>Crowley pushes him over the threshold, “No, I do not accept this kind of slander in my own home.” </p><p>Aziraphale takes a pointed step into the hallway and finishes, “Nice.” </p><p>“<em>Goodbye</em>, Angel.” </p><p>That gets him a chuckle, light and airy like chimes in the wind, and Crowley leans against the doorframe to watch him go, the sound echoing in his mind after he lets the door fall closed. </p><p>It clicks shut, and with it everything stills. It becomes completely and utterly silent. Not quiet; like the sounds of the outside is muddled, the wind blowing past, the steps of people down the street. The cars, the city, life. No. It’s not quiet. It’s silent. </p><p>There is no sound. </p><p>Crowley reaches for his ears—expecting, blood. Something. Anything to explain this—</p><p>There is a scream. It echoes of the walls, loud enough to pierce through the vacuum of nothing, breaking it open. There are, sobs, wrenching and almost inhuman, and then a thud like someone fell and—</p><p>Oh. Someone did. <em>He</em> did. He’s the one who—</p><p>Crowley gasps for breath, trying to stop the sobbing but he can’t, it’s coming from somewhere deeper than what he can control. It’s cold—his knees are cold and they ache because he’s falling on them, crashed to the floor. His hands are shaking so much that he can’t see the outlines of them—or maybe that’s the tears, blurring his vision. He can’t—he can’t. </p><p>Crowley shifts, falls further, curls up into a fetal position and clutches his chest. Because it must be open, gaping, bleeding deep red, <em>it hurts so much. </em>Something has been ripped out of him, something important. Like Aziraphale took it with him when he left. </p><p>Aziraphale. He needs Aziraphale. </p><p>All at once sound comes back. But it’s wrong: not the streets, but the roar of fire. Wood creaking underneath the pressure of the heat. Crowley takes a shocked breath in reflex and he tastes the flames, the heat of them burning his tongue. And ash—the smell of burning into his nostrils until nothing is real except for the flames. </p><p>The bookshop is on fire. </p><p>“Oh no,” Crowley chokes out. There is smoke in his lungs. “Oh no. <em>Please.</em>” </p><p>He needs Aziraphale. He needs to find him. He’s in there somewhere but he can’t move, he can’t run. He’s failing. Oh god. </p><p>The roar becomes louder, and Crowley can’t breathe. The bookshop envelops him. </p><p>He needs Aziraphale, but Aziraphale is dead. </p><p>It makes so much sense now. Aziraphale burned along with his books and Crowley will never see him again. His smile, his stupid bow ties, his softness and his magic tricks. All of it. Gone. Crowley with it, the essence of him burned to ash that day, and now he’s just a shell, gasping for air, hoping he’ll die all the same. </p><p>Crowley cries until he can’t anymore, his body aches from the cold hard floor and his hands have gone numb, white and skeletal as they grasp at his shirt. He’s about to stand—to, he doesn’t know. </p><p>But then the lock of the door clicks open and in front of him shuffles in Aziraphale—but that is impossible. He’s—he’s—</p><p>“You were right, my dear. Nothing has touched it. I’m so relie—<em>Crowley</em>, oh god!” </p><p>Aziraphale’s impossibly alive face swims into his vision, so close he can almost feel his breath. His expression is one of horror, but it’s the most beautiful thing Crowley has ever seen. Aziraphale drops to his knees and puts a hand to each side of Crowley’s face, wiping away the wet underneath his eyes. </p><p>Crowley shudders, and sucks his first successful breath in what feels like ages. The smell of smoke disappears in the scent of Aziraphale and he sways forward, soaking up the warmth of Aziraphale. Alive. </p><p>“My dear,” Aziraphale says, hoarse and low. His eyes are wet. “Please, talk to me.”</p><p>“You were gone,” Crowley tries, wrecked and slurring. </p><p>Aziraphale’s brows tug together. “You told me to go dear, you told me to pop in the bookshop, to give you some time.”</p><p>Crowley shakes his head, leaning into Aziraphale’s touch. Terror is still lapping at his heels but Aziraphale is here. He’s here and alive and Crowley can breathe again. “You were gone and I thought– I thought you were dead.” </p><p>The befuddlement on Aziraphale’s face blooms into sudden, anguished understanding. “ Oh, God. Don’t tell me you’ve been lying here the whole hour, dear. Please.” </p><p>Crowley doesn’t lie, not to Aziraphale, so he says nothing. Lowers his head, looks away. Not that that isn’t almost the same as saying it out loud. But Crowley can’t make himself, can’t get the words out. Aziraphale will hear it anyway, and he will know. He will know how broken Crowley has become. </p><p>————</p><p>It is almost infuriating, the way Aziraphale treats him after the crash, or it would be if Crowley hadn’t been starving for it: the gentle touch, the worry, the irrevocable, undeniable concern. </p><p>Aziraphale decides that they need a moment to heal from “all the apocalyptic nonsense we’ve been through the last week, my goodness has it truly only been a week?” and refuses to listen to Crowley’s ‘subtle’ suggestions to just leave him to deal with this alone. </p><p>Because it is also intensely humiliating, the way he can’t seem to let Aziraphale out of his sight for more than a few moments, and no amount of attention-hunger can compensate for the excruciating weight of his own weakness. </p><p>They pretend all is normal for a few days, spending their time chatting about nothing of consequence, catching up on the human’s impressions of the aforementioned ‘apocalyptic nonsense’. But throughout all of it, the issue at hand is a looming darkness over the both of them, and Crowley gets the sense they’re secretly waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop and stomp all over their little charade. </p><p>The arrangement however, leads to the need for another visit to the bookshop. Together, this time, Aziraphale would not have it otherwise. But they could not avoid the outside world forever. </p><p>It had been Crowley’s idea— embarrassed by the fact that Aziraphale had convinced himself to his side without even a single thought about what he wanted to do, and Crowley knew that going to the bookshop would at the very least give him some opportunity to take with him whatever projects the end of the world had put on hold. And, silently, he’d hoped that the moment they arrived, Aziraphale would realise what idiocity he’d been wasting his life on and would send Crowley back to deal with his fractured state on his own, like it is supposed to go. </p><p>But none of that happened, because the moment Crowley stood before it, he realised that he’d overlooked two very important facts. </p><p>One, he had been right all along: Aziraphale is dead. </p><p>And two: none of this is real. </p><p>Because Crowley had seen the bookshop burn. He’d watched Aziraphale’s heart go up in flames and <em>known</em> that he’d never see his friend — his soul-bound partner — ever again. </p><p>So it only makes sense. This is a dream. A fantasy built out of the ashes of Aziraphale's death, a gift from a version of himself that had no other way to run. </p><p>How could he ever have believed the ridiculous things that had happened after Aziraphale had perished were anything close to reality? </p><p>How could he ever have believed that Aziraphale would just have come back from death <em>for him</em>? </p><p>Crowley puts a hand against the doorframe of the shop and feels the flames licking on the other side of it. He laughs, and then he passes out. </p><p>————</p><p>Aziraphale must have brought him back to Soho, because Crowley comes to once or twice to see a few familiar streets. Once they stand before the door, his mind is alert again: clear in a way it hasn’t been since the fire. Panic is only a few steps behind him, but he keeps it at bay through a bubble of complete, and curious, numbness. </p><p>The door opens at a wave of Aziraphale’s hand and  Crowley’s feet fall into the familiar pathway to his chair. He slumps into it, bone weary despite the clarity of mind and stares in front of him, completely unseeing. </p><p>The dream theory makes sense in an inexplicable way Crowley doesn’t understand and he’s had quite enough of the unexplainable, ineffable plans be damned. So he ignores Aziraphale’s increasingly frantic utterances of his name, and sets to prod deeper into that feeling of certainty, trying to find the edges of it, the solid shapes that form the abstract base. He wanders around it in his head, visualising it as a strange and dark blot of ink suspended in water. He drags his hand through it, and it flows like a river into new formations. There is something behind them, and Crowley only has to reach in, considering everything from every angle: 2D, 3D, 4D, and a few that haven’t been discovered yet just in case. </p><p>In the end he comes upon two central questions to ask himself. If this is a dream, then why did it fail? Why isn’t he in blissful ignorance prancing about a world that doesn’t exist, besides his heart and soul that has perished in flame? Instead he’s terrorised by the truth seeping from his nightmares to his waking days, and it took only a visit to the bookshop for the illusion to shatter. </p><p>The second, smaller yet important question, is that if this is a dream of his own making, why didn’t Aziraphale confess his eternal love to him the moment they reunited after the discorporation? Crowley chuckles darkly at the image, making Aziraphale jump in shock, but Crowley ignores him as he smugly puts together the answer of one of his questions. </p><p>He wouldn’t have believed it. </p><p>If Aziraphale had gone to his knees and said exactly what Crowley has always wanted to hear, he would have figured it all for a dream long before the bookshop. Even if he does believe that Aziraphale has a definite fondness for him — a fondness that could be exploited to disastrous effects — the depth of love and devotion Crowley truly wants to hear is something so far from reality that it is <em>hysterical. </em>He’s been patiently waiting for over six thousand years and he will eat his Bentley if it doesn’t take at least another two thousand in order to even come close. <em>Of course </em>Crowley wouldn’t have gifted himself with everything he wanted; it would’ve betrayed the game. </p><p>And besides, Crowley wouldn’t want Aziraphale to change, really. He’s come to love him as he is, after all. Maybe there are subtle differences between his Aziraphale and the one he dreams: things based on assumptions and impressions that hadn’t yet been dispelled between them during their years of friendship. But the issue of love and confession is something he knows he can’t be wrong about. </p><p>Crowley feels satisfied as the nebulous certainty begins to take a more solid shape. The puzzle that had slot into place in the bookshop starts to bear an image now, the pieces finally baring colour. </p><p>As to the question why he hadn’t succeeded, that might even be simple to answer: he hadn’t been powerful enough. Either his miraculous stores had run out too much, or the endeavour had been too ambitious from the start. Even if he was able to maintain it, Crowley has always had trouble with fooling himself. It might be the nature of the beast: denial in short supply once he stepped out of the bounds of Heaven, where they of course have plenty. </p><p>From the first, Crowley hadn’t been able to fool himself into thinking that Aziraphale would be a mere curiosity to him. It had started with the sword of course, but that was a mere twinge of surprised affection that would soon be dwarfed by the fondness and eventual love he carries for Aziraphale. And he’d seen it coming, eyes wide, like the creation of his stars, a small hint of flame being encouraged into a roaring fire with every angelic breath. Unlike his fall down to Hell, his falling in love with an angel had been more like a spiral staircase, every step taken in careful consideration for he knew what lay at the end of it, and it wouldn’t help anyone if he went too quickly. </p><p>He’d made mistakes in pace, of course. The [breath] of Aziraphale’s denial lays as large as a desert sandscape, but even in its bright light there are shadows Crowley could linger within, flitting from darkness to darkness, drawing out intimacies under pretences that protected them both from Heaven and its rules. But as cheerful and jolly Aziraphale can be, he’s also unpredictable and unbearably keen. Sometimes the shadows flare only to disappear, and Aziraphale would speak to him as if he’d seen through all their pretences all along. </p><p>
  <em>“You go too fast for me.” </em>
</p><p>So Crowley had cautioned himself further, trying to ensure a future for them together without it being so far out of reach that it might as well be eternity. But all his efforts felt fragile at times, when Aziraphale’s denial would flash, sharp and cruel, denying their future and their friendship in one fell swoop. It’s in those moments that Crowley feels like the bridge he’s been attempting to build between them is made of glass instead of stone, and Aziraphale could break it with one boorish, oblivious movement. </p><p>Or words, so to speak. </p><p>The conversation at the bandstand had put larger cracks in the bridge than ever, and the intense hurt Crowley had felt crossing over it, his feet filling with splinters, had made him lash out and create even more. </p><p>An ice cold realisation shoots into Crowley’s body when he realises what this all means. Aziraphale died in the fire. So the last words Crowley ever said to him, were that he wouldn’t miss him. </p><p>Crowley shallows a sob, too exhausted to cry even more, but he can’t stop his body from shaking. Another answer falls into his lap like a street cat— unwanted, sickening, yet unbearably insistent for his attention: the reason the dream had failed is not his power, nor his inability in live in lies. It’s that somewhere, deep down, he’d known that he did not deserve it. </p><p>Aziraphale breaks into his thoughts by quite literally slapping him in the face. </p><p>“He isn’t responding—“ Aziraphale is saying, frantically, to— Oh. He’s on the phone. Crowley can just hear the tinny voice of Anathema coming out of the receiver</p><p>“I am a witch, not a satanist,” she says, “I don’t know how to reboot a demon. Did you slap him?” </p><p>“I did.” Aziraphale’s eyes are flickering over Crowley’s face, searching so desperately, it is heartbreaking to watch. If it was real, Crowley reminds himself. </p><p>“He isn’t—“ Aziraphale says, “I don’t know if he’s here anymore, Anathema. I—“ . His voice putters out like the last melancholy note of a violin. All the frantic energy deflating in favour for the stunned silence of a man at a complete and utter loss.</p><p>Aziraphale presses a hand over his mouth and good god, there are tears running down his cheeks now. Blue eyes rimmed red and becoming puffy. His shoulders hunch with sorrow, and the pain— the pain is so open in his face. Keening with it. </p><p>Aziraphale is sobbing for him, mourning for him. Oh the irony. </p><p>“Slap him again,” Anathema’s sharp voice cuts through Aziraphale’s hitching breaths. </p><p>Aziraphale shakes his head. “No. No—“ He leans against the desk, shuddering, clutching himself. He seems so alone. </p><p>“Aziraphale,” Athenama begins, like the start of an order, but Aziraphale interrupts.</p><p>“He left me. I don’t know where he went but he left me.” </p><p>Crowley wants to go over to him. Crowley wants to wipe the tears of his face and promise that he’d never ever leave his side if there is a place for him. But this isn’t real. This shouldn’t matter. Aziraphale is dead. This is just his imagination failing to indulging him with some fantasy, so why does every tear on Aziraphale’s cheek feel like a barb in his throat and ever heaving breath a stab in his chest? Why does it hurt so much, to see Aziraphale in pain? </p><p>Whatever it might be, the scene before him is worse torture than Hell ever was, and Crowley cannot help himself another temptation. He speaks to the figment, just to have the crying stop. </p><p>“I’m afraid you got it the other way around,” he says. His tongue is clumsy around the vowels, almost too snakelike for speech. </p><p>Oh. </p><p>How selfish is it, to bask in Aziraphale’s widening eyes, the shock and then the elation. The brilliant relief shining brighter than a thousand suns. Aziraphale stumbles forward, phone forgotten and clattering against the tiled floors. His hands are on Crowley’s cheeks and his eyes again, searching, but this time with hope. </p><p>“I’ve done so well with you,” Crowley muses idly. “You seem so much like him.” </p><p>“Crowley, thank God, you’re— you were,” Aziraphale’s elated stuttering gets lost in a grin so wide it must be straining his face. Crowley can’t help but frown at it— he doesn’t think Aziraphale has ever been this happy and this close, all at the same time, for as long they’ve known each other, so he isn’t quite sure about the accuracy of this. </p><p>But the smile is dimming, as Aziraphale finally seems to register what Crowley said. </p><p>“Crowley— What—“ The questions upon questions Aziraphale must have are akin to the wrinkles formed by his newly acquired frown. Eventually he says, “So much like who?”</p><p>Crowley’s throat tightens. “My angel,” he says. “My best friend. He’s dead, you know.” </p><p>Aziraphale blinks and then blood drains from his face. “No, no. Crowley. No. I’m here. I’m right in front of you.” </p><p>“I know,” Crowley says. “Isn’t it amazing, what a dream can do?” </p><p>“I—“ Aziraphale gapes. “You—“ </p><p>“This is a dream, darling,” Crowley tells him patiently. He allows himself the endearment, the obviousness. It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s got no one to hide from in here. “You’ve died, dear. In the fire, remember? And the apocalypse happened, though I don’t know when I decided to pull the plug and build all this instead. I suppose right after, as our little reunion at the bar most certainly didn’t happen. Can you believe I thought Angels just come to earth willy nilly after a discorporation? Never<em>mind</em> possess a<em> human</em>, however willing.” </p><p>Crowley intends to shake his head at himself in exasperation, but Aziraphale’s hands are in the way, so he chuckles instead and continues, “And the apocalypse ended because the Anti-Christ told off his father? You have to give me points for the creativity.” </p><p>Aziraphale’s hands fall away and he’s shaking, eyes wide and so confused. “Crowley. What is happening to you?” </p><p>“Can’t you see,” Crowley says and he expands his hands to encompass the room. “This, all of this, isn’t real. It’s my final miracle. The most selfish one, the most sinful one, just for myself. After you died, my love, I gave up. I didn’t try to save the world. I wallowed in my sorrow until I couldn’t anymore, and gave myself this gift.”</p><p>“What gift?” </p><p>“You. A life with you. For as long as I could dream it.” </p><p>Aziraphale shudders. His face flickers with something, something Crowley isn’t sure how to read. But before any more can be said, a noise comes from the general direction of the floor. </p><p>“Can one of you two ancient idiots explain to me what the hell is going on?” </p><p>Aziraphale stares at the phone for a moment and then bends to pick it up. </p><p>Crowley tunes them out once they start discussing him. It is quite obvious they think him crazy, and Crowley must commend himself on that trick. It wouldn’t do for the dreamed subjects to immediately give up the game. Maybe Aziraphale would have been able to convince him — the hurt at Aziraphale’s pain felt very real after all — but only if it wasn’t for this intense certainty that Aziraphale is dead and gone. The nightmares and the haunting beast of terror that came every time Aziraphale left his sight, forces away any other possible options. </p><p>The question now is, of course, when the dream will end. </p><p>————</p><p>The issue is the following: </p><p>It doesn’t. </p><p>Three weeks after Crowley solved the puzzle, he’s still dreaming. Or, as much as time can be trusted in dreams, it feels like three weeks. The sun goes up and down in a frustratingly chronological pattern. It is kind of anti-climactic if he’s being honest. </p><p>Crowley had at least hoped now that he knew the truth of his circumstances, he would be a bit more in control of things. The nightmares, for one, would be nice to get rid of. Not only do they come with a heaping of trauma, every time he wakes he forgets for a single moment that he’s dreaming still. It’s routine now, the gasping relief when he opens his eyes and sees the burning library vanish before him; the rush of memories with Aziraphale, the bar, the base, the bus. And then the realisation that none of that happened. Aziraphale is still dead, and the rest of it a farce. </p><p>And then there is Aziraphale— or at least the Aziraphale he dreamed up for himself. Crowley has to commend himself for his ability to so realistically create the most mopiest of angels that has ever existed. Aziraphale’s circle of movement has restricted itself to the kitchen and the living room, refusing to leave the house despite Crowley’s pestering because “Forgive me but I do not like to come home to you like you were last time, dear” and Crowley’s argumentation that none of this is real so it really shouldn’t matter has not convinced him so far. </p><p>Which is kind of rude, in the grand scheme of things. The dream is slowly turning in nothing short of a nightmare because Crowley is forced to see Aziraphale suffer, to see him slowly waste away in the darkness of the apartment, and send these drained and <em>sad</em> glances whenever Crowley grieves his best friend. He’s a witness to Aziraphale descend into  darkness, losing his smiles and curiosity in the world— and yes it isn’t <em>real </em>but somehow it hurts to see just as much, and nothing Crowley had tried seemed to change any of it. </p><p>“Look,” Crowley had said, well beyond tipsy off some vodka he found underneath his bed, </p><p>“Can’t you pretend to be more like him? I know I ruined it all by realising the truth but I don’t actually want to dream anymore if you are so miserable all the time.” </p><p>Aziraphale had just watched him, eyes so unbearably sad. He’d stopped insisting it was real two weeks ago. Crowley almost misses it. </p><p>“You know,” Crowley had continued, “Cheery. Smiley. Not a… a shadow or a ghost— wait, that makes sense actually. Because you’re dead.” </p><p>Aziraphale had started crying.</p><p>Crowley continues waiting for the dream to end. </p><p>————</p><p>Aziraphale is on the phone again. It’s the only time he speaks anymore. </p><p>“I don’t know what to do, Athanama— sometimes… sometimes I almost believe him.” </p><p>“No— no. I know it is reality. I can feel it. It is just— it would be easier sometimes, to believe this is something we could wake up from.” </p><p>“Right. Right. Okay. Yes. We’re coming.” </p><p>Crowley blinks his eyes open just before Aziraphale enters his bedroom. The curtains are still closed from that very first time, but the room seems suddenly alight with a strange type of light. It takes a moment to realise that Aziraphale seems to be aglow with something Crowley hasn’t seen on him for a long time. Determination. </p><p>Aziraphale’s gaze finds him. His hand is tense around the phone and he’s nodding to himself, his jaw clenching before he speaks. “I am so utterly done with this nonsense,” he says tersely. “I’m putting a stop to it. We are <em>not</em> going to wallow for eternity because of whatever delusion your fiendish puddle of a brain tempting you into. We need a change of pace. We are going to Tadfield to visit Anathema and you’re not going to refuse.” </p><p>He lets out a breath after all that, but his shoulders are still pulled back as if preparing for an all out shouting match. Crowley wouldn’t know why he would argue— what would it matter anyway? And besides, he’s marvelling at the scene before him: he wants to reach out and touch the strength behind Aziraphale's words, the sudden explosion of confidence so different to the doubt that had been plaguing him for the entirety of their dark and depressing exile. It is one of the major particularities about him that Crowley has always admired, the stark contrast between his usual reticence to take risks that sharpens into an unstoppable force the moment he’s made a choice. </p><p>“Oh,” Crowley says, awed, “I’ve missed you.” </p><p>There is a pause, Aziraphale tilting his head to the side in confusion, but then his face softens, almost reluctantly, and he takes a step to the bed. And another. Until nothing is stopping them from falling into each other’s arms. </p><p>Aziraphale holds him tight and it isn’t real, it isn’t<em> real— </em>but for the first time in a long time Crowley wants to believe, just for a moment. He’s so tired of not caring. </p><p>“I’ve done this all wrong haven’t I?” Aziraphale says into his shoulder. “I’ve let you fall into darkness and I— I didn’t catch you. Didn’t even try.” </p><p>“No, no,” Crowley murmurs, suddenly lethargic from the warmth enclosing him. “It isn’t your fault, angel. It isn’t your fault.” </p><p>Aziraphale leans back a little, so that he meets Crowley’s gaze, and shakes his head, eyes wet. “I didn’t know what to do, my dear. I still don’t know. But I can’t deny that I’ve done you wrong. I’ve been avoiding you— avoiding all of this. Finding my own dark place and leaving us both in isolation.” He puts a hand against Crowley’s jaw and his face grows determined again. “It hurts so much to have you look at me with mourning. To see you grieve me when I’m right beside you. I can’t explain how much this breaks my heart. But I can’t let myself run from it anymore. We have to fix it before it kills us both.” </p><p>Guilt sweeps through Crowley’s body— he hadn’t even thought about what it would be like, hadn’t been capable of feeling anything besides his grief. To think he’d hurt Aziraphale like that, even an Aziraphale in his dream, is almost too much to bare. </p><p>“Would it help if I pretend?” Crowley asks quietly. <em>Will he hold me, if I pretend. Will the Aziraphale I fell in love with return, If I pretend. </em></p><p>Aziraphale closes his eyes. “I want you to believe me when I say we survived. We saved the world and gave ourselves a chance at happiness, but I know you can’t. Not right now.” He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know if it would help, pretending. I don’t know if it would help you. Would you be happier, dear?” </p><p><em>I’m happier now. </em>Crowley realises, held and warm. It is a bittersweet happiness, enclosed with an edge of mourning, but it is happiness nonetheless. </p><p>“I could try,” Crowley says. “All I’ve done is wasting this dream and it hasn’t ended yet so—“</p><p>Aziraphale’s expression had crumbled again. </p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“No, no. I don’t want you to lie. I don’t want you to hide from me.” Aziraphale leans back further and sighs. “Just forgive me, when I— it will hurt to hear, from time to time.” </p><p>Crowley considers this and nods. “It is strange,” he says. “I am so certain this is a dream, and that you’ve passed on, so that nothing really matters anymore—“ </p><p>Aziraphale shudders beside him.</p><p>“— but, I still ache when I see you like this. I still don’t want to hurt you, angel. I’ve never wanted that.” </p><p>Aziraphale watches him for a moment, he gives a small but honest smile— one sparking with an inkling of hope. “Maybe that is enough for now.” </p><p>Crowley takes a heavy breath and nods. He doesn’t believe Aziraphale yet, but maybe he doesn’t have to in order to make this right— for the both of them. </p><p>————</p><p>There is tea prepared for them when they arrive. </p><p>Four miscellaneous mugs are steaming slightly in the middle of the kitchen table. Newt reaches for the large blue monstrosity covered in polka dots and sits down, looking at the cup between his hands with an intense awkwardness, while Anathema sits down besides him and motions for Crowley and Aziraphale to take the seats across. </p><p>They’ve done all the pleasantries of course— the good to see you’s and the how are you’s, questions that have no real answer to them and are only said in an attempt at a spot of familiarity within all the chaos, because how do you greet two unworldly beings a short month after saving the world with them? From Newt’s expression, these are the exact questions plaguing him. So, they’ve set tea, as one does in circumstances like these— or better yet in any circumstances at all. It’s a fool proof method, except that Crowley’s teetering on the edge of a long and quite frankly insane giggle, because any second now they will be asking <em>questions </em>and he doesn’t know how to handle having to tell anyone that this isn’t real while they’re drinking bloody tea. </p><p>Anathema, it seems, has none of these concerns, because she purses her lips and asks, “Still dreaming then?” </p><p>From the corner of Crowley’s eye, he sees Aziraphale very carefully not flinch and smile instead. It looks brittle. Crowley feels horrible.</p><p>“We still seem to be in the middle of it, yes,” Aziraphale says with the same tone someone could be talking about a spot of bad weather. “Thank you, for offering us a moment out of the city. I think the environment… wasn’t helping matters.” </p><p>Anathema nods vaguely at that, acknowledging Aziraphale only in passing. Her eyes have not left Crowley’s face and they feel like burning embers of— oh hell, don’t let it be—</p><p>“I must say that I’m very curious to learn more details,” she says. “It is a very interesting situation, and I’ve done some reading.” She nods at Newt, who disappears momentarily into the living room. “Of course, you are a demon, everything I found about dissociation and delusion might be completely irrelevant, but from the little I know I did find some interesting similarities.” </p><p>Newt comes back with two large office binder that both look completely filled to the brim with papers and print outs, some of which are spilling out of the edges, or even falling out of the binder all together. </p><p>Anathema opens the first and flips through the pages— some seem to be printed out online articles from various origins, ranging from medical papers to some seriously questionable sources that Crowley vaguely remembers writing himself after a few bottles of cheap wine. There are also a few more cryptic pages, drawing attention between the clean white print by way of the cracks and stains that come with the aging of paper. When Anathema stills, it is clear that the older pages must have been ripped out of books, and Crowley feels a pang on Aziraphael’s behalf; to him that must be akin to murder. </p><p>But Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice the war-crimes committed to his literary lovers, and instead watching the proceedings with intense interest. </p><p>“I’ve tried to combine the knowledge we have about demons and symptoms of acute dissociation after a traumatic event, including grief and extreme exhaustion into the mix. Of course, the over-use of hellish power isn’t the same thing as mental or physical exhaustion but it is the closest that we can get and from what Aziraphale told me the time stop must have triggered the deterioration of the replenishing system that is central to your recovery process—” </p><p>“You— what—” Crowley tries to cut through the barrage of information but Anathema blithely continues until he hisses, “<em>That is enough.</em>”</p><p>Silence falls abruptly, jarring and harsh, like he slammed his fist against the table instead of just talking. The way Anathema flinches back, and Newt seems torn between high tailing it out of the room and placing himself before Anathema, are utter overreactions he just needed the words to <em>stop </em>and—</p><p><em>“</em>Crowley…” Aziraphale says with reproach. </p><p>Crowley twists around to snarl at the disapproving frown he must be sending him, but all wind is taken out of his sails when he sees that Aziraphale isn’t looking at him with disappointment, or annoyance. His face is calm and polite, maybe a slight bit pained, but Crowley can read between the lines and Aziraphale looks completely and utterly terrified. </p><p>“I am—” Crowley tries to apologize, but his tongue is too heavy in his mouth, strange and painful somehow— Oh. The fangs. Of course. That’s why they’re so— </p><p>Crowley takes a breath and tries to fit himself back into his human form, pushing the snake deep down where it can’t scare anyone any longer. As he breathes, he notices that the room had gone very dark for the gentle afternoon it had been. Sunlight creeps back into the room hesitantly, as if not sure of its welcome, as shadows, sticking to every surface, slowly slink back into Crowley’s body. </p><p>Aziraphale moves like he wishes to put a hand on Crowley’s arm, but he seems to change his mind midway and instead takes his cup of tea in a slightly too casual fashion. </p><p>Anathema clears her throat. “Has that happened before?” </p><p>Crowley freezes. He doesn’t think he’s lost a lot of time these past few weeks, only when Aziraphale left and just before the nightmares come, but this happened so quickly and was so out of his control, so who the hell knows what he could have done in those few moments he doesn’t remember. </p><p>Aziraphale presses his lips together and shakes his head at the same time as nodding it slightly, which is maybe the most frustrating thing Crowley has seen since Michael’s bloody shark-like excuses for a smile. </p><p>“The shadows, yes,” Aziraphale clarifies. “I don’t think we had any light in the apartment.  Those poor plants...” He drifts off for a moment, but then blinks and regains his composure. “But it wasn’t quite like that.” </p><p>“Emotional, you mean,” Anathema pries. </p><p>Aziraphale shifts slightly in his seat. “I wouldn’t say that there haven’t been... emotions, present. Just, not like that.” </p><p>“I haven’t gone all fangy on you before, you’re saying,” Crowley says with casual air he doesn’t feel. He’s partaking in the uncomfortable experience of recent humiliations being put into the light, and though it is precious in a way, Aziraphale’s wish to protect him from it only drags the process out. </p><p>“I’ll just put down mood swings and emotional outbursts,” Anathema says, and goes to literally write it down on a page in the file. She must have a system, but to Crowley it seems like she’s just using the first one that fell open as scrap paper. </p><p>“If that would help, then, I suppose I should say that I’ve only witnessed sadness, despair, grief, and morbid amusement,” Aziraphale ventures, with a sideways glance to Crowley, and then adds, clearing his throat. “And, of course, defensive rage, just now.” </p><p>“The amusement is interesting,” Anathema muses. “I think I’ve read something about that—” </p><p>“If you could show me, that would be appreciated.” Aziraphale leans over the table with renewed interest. “Until now I assumed it just was his character, you know. It seemed the one thing of him still left, but if you’re saying it is also a symptom—” </p><p>“Yes, we can’t have that now can we,” Crowley snaps, grasping at straws to remain calm but there is a certain difficulty to that when you’re being discussed like a flayed open science experiment. “Maybe there is none of me left at all and I’m just pretending to be who you think I am. Or better yet, maybe none of this is real and my body is in a ditch somewhere until the end of the world comes and even this will stop. Why are we assuming I’m delusional, or what is it that you said— dissociating? Why will none of you even entertain the possibility that all of this is an illusion?” </p><p>“Oh, we have,” Newt says. “Humans do that all the time.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“You know, stimulation theory? That this is all a simulation made by computer somewhere? You should watch the matrix—” Newt pauses, frowns and shakes his head. ”Seeing the circumstances you should not, watch it, right now. But once you’re better you’re could. If you’re still interested.” </p><p>“What in the bloody H—” Crowley hisses, and corrects himself. “What are you <em>on</em> about?”  </p><p>“It has dawned on us that we can never be sure that what we perceive is real,” Anathema says blithely, as if it is an as obvious a consideration as whether it will rain tomorrow. “I mean, there is a shrimp that can see 16 more colours than us humans. What we see as red might not actually be red, or your red might be a different red. Perception is shaped by autonomy, and therefore every living creature is in a world of their own, shaped by their own limited perspective. This could mean that everything is a construction, because what is anything if you really think about it.”</p><p>“And that is not even taking string theory in account,” Newt says grave look on his face. “Believe me. You don’t want to know.” </p><p>“How do you humans deal with this nonsense?” Crowley looks between the both of them, utterly confounded by the calm consideration on their faces. “How can anything matter if you’re not sure about anything?” </p><p>“It depends,” Anathema says, and shrugs. “Some people find stability in a religion that makes everything make sense to them. Others find a sort of peace with the idea that they won’t ever know for sure, and a lot of people, I think most of us, just don’t really think about it and go on with their day. Like, I mean, even if this is all not real. What is that to me? I’m affected by the things that happen to me, I feel pain, emotions, sensations. I have a sense of self and ideas on how I want to live my life. So even if this isn’t real, what does it hurt me to just live it like it is and make the most of it?” </p><p>Crowley has seen humans do impressive, ambitious, and utterly insane things throughout his time. He’s not too proud to admit that however clever his temptations could be, he’d never been able to reach the heights of a human with an impossible idea and the determination to dedicate their entire incomprehensibly finite life to it. But this— he’s never been as impressed and as thoroughly terrified of the depth of human consciousness as he is now. If this is true, humans are able live with the same uncertainty that is destroying a demon to his core. Crowley might be infinitely more powerful than any one of them, but in this regard, he is small, weak, and useless. </p><p>“This dream of yours, is anything different than ‘reality’?” Anathema cuts right through the strangest revelation he’s ever had.  “Does Aziraphale act differently? Is there something insurmountably wrong that you can’t assign to the events of the last month or so?” </p><p>“No— I,” Crowley sets his jaw, trying to gather his senses back to the conversation. “I would be able to make it naturalistic, I wouldn’t want to idealise it. I would want it to be as close to reality as possible. The only difference is, is that I know it isn’t.” When he says it, all of his confuses falls away at once. It feels so correct. It slots into place and gives him back order. As does the thought that always follows: “And that I know Aziraphale is dead.” </p><p>“I think that is the key,” Aziraphale jumps in. “For some reason you can’t believe that I came back. That I survived. And now, because I’m here, the only thing your mind could think to do is to decide that then nothing was real.” </p><p>“Oh!” Newt exclaims and claps once, like he caught the solution between his hands. “It’s grief! A bad form of it but still,” Newt says, and then lowers his head again, adding more hesitantly, “I mean, there is that saying about things being too good to be true. I think that if I lost someone that I— I care about. And then they just popped back into my life, I would just expect them to disappear any moment.” </p><p>“That is a good theory, Newt. Definitely,” Anathema says. “We’ve asked enough questions for today, I think. If you want to step outside for a moment, you can loan our bikes. I need to look a few things up.” </p><p>Newt seems surprised at the abrupt dismissal, but Crowley is nothing but relieved for the respite. Luckily Aziraphale doesn’t seem in the mood to argue either, so Crowley shoots up out of his seat— and then has to stand there, for a moment, feeling dizzy and exhausted to the bone. </p><p>Aziraphale notices, of course, and murmurs, “I’ll be getting our coats, you wait here dear.” </p><p>Crowley is left there to surreptitiously catch his breath. By the time Aziraphale comes back he feels marginally better, and intensely more motivated to get out of the house, but just as he moves to follow Aziraphale to the hallway, Anthenema says, </p><p>“Crowley, a word.” </p><p>The determination on her face confirms to Crowley that hearing her out will likely be the fastest way to flee, so he allows her to lead him to the side. Aziraphale will be able to hear every word. He doesn’t mention this to Anathema. </p><p>“Look, there was a time where I—” Anathema bites her lip, and looks away with a flush spreading over her cheeks. “My whole life has been following the instructions of a woman I never knew, to a purpose I did not write, following a path I could not see. I trusted her. I trusted the legacy of my family, so it can be hard to admit that there were moments. Tiny moments. Where I could not see the difference between reality and fantasy, and wondered if all this wasn’t one giant delusion.” She takes a breath, stretching her fingers in and out in a neurotic movement. Crowley wonders if it helps. </p><p>“It can be lonely, to see things others don’t. To know things the world is supposed to be ignorant off. So it can be easier, sometimes, to think that maybe there is something wrong with you, and if you get out of this delusion and go back to reality again, you can join the others in it.</p><p>“Your situation isn’t the same, but just take this advice. Act as you would in any reality. You might not ever believe this one to be true, but believe your perceptions and act upon them regardless. It will make you happier than just lose yourself in doubt. There is no guarantee that if you die in this reality, you would even go back to the one you do believe in. So, even if this isn’t real, there is no upside trying to get out of it. Do you understand what I’m saying.” </p><p>She looks him dead in the eye, at that, and Crowley recognizes a hint of darkness that she’s never shown before. It’s rare for humans to be able to hide parts of themselves like that, but it seems like this is one she’s also been trying to hide from herself. She’s opened up herself for his sake, offered up some of her own shadows to help him get out of his.</p><p>Crowley nods, at a loss for words. He doesn’t know how to thank her.  </p><p>Anathema nods back, and walks away. </p><p>Maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe understanding is enough. </p><p>He hopes it is. </p><p><em>If it were real</em>, a voice reminds him. He wishes it would shut up. </p><p>————</p><p>They decide to take a walk instead of the bikes— or rather, Aziraphale does, by ignoring the things blithely and leading them to a small forest path. They meander through the trees with a strange sort of quiet between them that neither seems sure how to break. </p><p>A part of Crowley is processing; taking every morsel that was said and left unsaid and trying to make sense of it without breaking apart in a new spiral of panic, or worse yet, numbness. The majority of him, however, is concerned with how Aziraphale looks in the light. </p><p>He was right, of course; it had been very dark in his apartment, but Crowley had just assumed Aziraphale had closed the drapes to keep the outside world from seeing a demon at his weakest. He hadn’t realised the darkness came from him, and he had certainly not realised he’d been confiningAziraphale — light-bound, sun-caressed, smile-of-stars <em>Aziraphale</em> — to the shadows of his own making. </p><p>An apology scrapes a wound into the back of his throat, but he can’t seem to get the words out, helplessly mute in the beauty of Aziraphale’s profile, contrasting gently with the reds and pinks of the sunset. </p><p>Aziraphale notices him staring eventually, but unlike before, he doesn’t smile when their eyes meet. It isn’t the resigned sadness of the last few weeks either. It’s something different, something that makes Crowley’s heart compress to a small tiny speck of pain. </p><p>“What is it, angel?” Crowley asks in a hushed tone, because there is no other way to speak to someone who is trying to hide the fact that they are one wrong word away from crying. </p><p>Aziraphale takes a step forward and puts his hands on Crowley’s arms,<em> tight</em>, and says in an anguished voice, “Promise me you’re not going to try to— to— <em>leave me</em>.” </p><p>“What? Of course I wouldn’t, not after everything—”</p><p>“There is no more holy water, right? You used all of it?”</p><p>It’s only then that Aziraphale’s insinuation crystallizes. He’d all but forgotten Aziraphale had been listening to Anathema’s advice. “<em>Oh. </em>No. I mean yes. I don’t have anymore and I— I wasn’t planning to, and I’m not going to. I mean. I hate this feeling of everything being aimless and illusionary and that nothing matters because it’s a dream but, Angel. If I’m right, and this is a dream, then the only reality I can go back to is the one where you are gone, and I will not, in any circumstances, live in a world where that is the case. As evidenced by this whole mess, if you did die on me.” </p><p>“Oh, thank goodness, that is good. Or maybe not good, but alright. We can— We can start with that.” Aziraphale is nodding to himself, harried. “Yes. Okay. I was just— you didn’t say anything to her, when she said— and then she left so quickly. I thought—</p><p>“No, no, angel,” Crowley takes one of his arms out of Aziraphale’s grasp so that he can lay it on his shoulder, brushing a hint of flint away. “I nodded. I understood what she was saying and I nodded. Alright?” </p><p>Aziraphale gives one final nod to end the overabundance of nodding, and relaxes his grip on Crowley. He doesn’t remove his hand though, and even on top of the layers of fabric, the skin feels unnaturally warmed by his touch. </p><p>“I think…” Crowley says, his mouth speaking before his mind and finding sudden freedom in it, enough to reveal what he’d been hiding from himself to the light of Aziraphale’s attention. “I want to hope this is real. I need this to be real. I don’t want to have lost you, Aziraphale. And here you are. I’ve got you here, and you’re you, real or not. You’re perfect and I’m wasting my gift. I’m making you unhappy with all this, and I will never forgive myself for that. Not in any reality.”</p><p>Crowley lets his hand wander from Aziraphale’s shoulder to his neck, and then his jaw. It feels so utterly, and deliciously real. And despite knowing that it isn’t, he ignores the certainty and follows Anathemas advice, and acts like he would if it was. </p><p>So he says, his thumb to Aziraphale’s jaw, “Any reality with you in it, is a reality I want to live. I promise that I’ll try, from now on, and I am so sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.” </p><p>It has always been one of his favorite things about Aziraphale: where his emotions bloom so grand on his face every single day, it is the important ones — the precious ones — that are small. Almost invisible. Crowley takes pride and pleasure in spotting them, secreted away in the moments when Aziraphale thinks there is no one to witness. </p><p>But this one is open and long lasting, an expression so subtle and so naked that Crowley is at an utter loss to translate it. It’s like staring into a nebula, if that nebula held all you loved. So in awe is Crowley with the luxury of seeing one of these secrets revealed to him at full force, that he hasn’t noticed Aziraphale has moved until their lips touch. </p><p>They’re kissing.  </p><p>It is unbelievable. It can’t be real. It’s—</p><p>Crowley acts like he would, always, in any reality, and kisses back. </p><p>The sun must have encircled the earth a dozen times by the time Aziraphale eases away and Crowley can breathe again. </p><p>Aziraphale’s expression has gone loud. Subtlety made way to a broad smile similar to the ones he gifts the world in abundance, but isn’t that how Aziraphale loves the world in its every moment? </p><p>Therefore, it must be logically said— empirically proven, that is. There is evidence to conclude, in the case of the equal intensity of smiles in a situation such as these, directed upon Crowley, after a— a kiss, that Aziraphale loves– loves him. </p><p>The earth does not shatter; the expression, if apt, does not live up to its promises. </p><p>“Oh I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” Aziraphale says, blush-bright. </p><p>“That is impossible,” Crowley says— to his conclusion and Aziraphale both. </p><p>“My dear,” Aziraphale begins, but Crowley shakes him off.</p><p>The earth isn’t shattering but his mind might be. It is impossible. It goes against everything he knew. This—</p><p> “This changes things,” Crowley blabbers. He can’t help himself. There is nothing in the way of good sense to control himself anymore. Aziraphale kissed all that right out of him. <em>Aziraphale kissed him.</em> He sways back a step, unsteady on his feet, hands in his hair. “This changes everything, but I’m not sure— what has changed? I don’t know what this means. What does this mean?” </p><p>“To me? To—to kiss you?” Aziraphale says, flustered himself now. His smile has gone to ruin in the wake of uncertainty, and Crowley wishes he had the capability of building it back up again.  </p><p>“Well, I suppose the obvious answer is that it means love, because it does, of course,” Aziraphale says by way of answer. </p><p>Like it doesn’t capitulate the impossibility into insanity. For Crowley to think it, is one thing, but to hear it—</p><p>Aziraphale goes on regardless of impossibilities. “But in this particular case, it also means the end of my manners, as this is unfair to spring on you while you are in such a state and I cannot believe I have been so selfish. I realised, you know, that I had been letting our chance slip between my fingers. The war could have taken you from me, taken everything from me— and so I thought that now that was all done with, I shouldn't go on to waste more time. But then— but then you were lost to me anyway, or rather, you thought<em> I</em> was.” </p><p>The untruths — they can’t be true, Crowley would have known; Aziraphale couldn’t have hid himself like this — come with the air of regret and apology. If there was a more extreme word for ‘impossible’, it would apply to the preposterous idea that Aziraphale would ever need to apologize for kissing him. </p><p>Crowley is drowning in a paradox and there is nothing to do but breathe. </p><p>“So I promised myself to wait,” Aziraphale is saying, “to let you heal and not entangle this into the situation along with everything else. But then you said—” Aziraphale stills with a hitch of breath, presses his lips together for a moment, then adds in a fractured voice, “and I just could not <em>control</em> myself.” </p><p>He sounds— not ashamed, but <em>resigned.</em> As if he’d known that it would lead to this eventually. As if Aziraphale had been waiting, ever so slightly, for the moment when he’d slip and acted in accordance to his deepest desires, rather than the best interests of his very dearest friend. </p><p>The paradox falls apart. </p><p>“I know what it means.” Crowley smiles, wide, dizzy with it, and grasps Aziraphale’s hands. “I know <em>what it means.</em>” </p><p>“Could you be so kind to illuminate your realisation to me, my dear, because I am quite—” </p><p>“This is real.” </p><p>Aziraphale gapes. </p><p>“You’re real. You’re alive. You’re<em> alive.” </em></p><p>Where silence had accompanied Crowley’s realisation of Aziraphales demise, the reverse is true for his being alive. Everything cascades into Crowley’s ear, like the universe roars in victory—the thudding drums of his heart, the glory song of the birds in the forest trees, even the rustling of the leaves sound like an audience cheering. </p><p>The flames of the bookshop have never been as far away. </p><p>Aziraphale is alive, and Crowley falls to his knees and cries.  “Oh god, I haven’t lost you. I haven’t lost you at all.”</p><p>As if to provide more evidence, Aziraphale drops down beside him at once, cradling Crowley’s face, and speaking as fast a single breath will carry him. “<em>Of course</em> you haven’t. You never will. I simply won’t allow it.” </p><p>It is a stupid thing to promise, but in this moment, Crowley lets himself believe it. After so many days in the trenches of hopelessness, he allows Aziraphale to give him another impossible gift: the promise of forever. A forever that is real. </p><p>“My dear, how did you realise?” Aziraphale asks, an expression broken between tears of happiness and deep desperation. “I am so glad you’re finally able to see the truth, but I need to know, if you ever forget again. How can I convince you?” </p><p>Crowley laughs wetly. “I won’t forget. I will never forget this.” He takes a shuddering breath and turns into Aziraphale’s hands. He raises his own to wipe away the tears on those cherry-blossom cheeks. “You wouldn’t have, otherwise, angel. The you I thought you were, wouldn’t have. Not for another thousand years—maybe a few hundred less, if I was feeling fanciful, but not like this. Not now.” </p><p>“I wouldn’t have what Crowley?” </p><p>“Kissed me. <em>Loved</em> me. Wanted me, in that way. I would never have believed it, so I wouldn’t have dreamed it. I wouldn’t have constructed this for myself, because it would have so obviously been a fantasy.” Crowley barks another laugh. “So that means it only can be real. Because I was wrong about you. You surprised me, angel. You surprised me with your love.” </p><p>“My dear, I will spend the rest of our lifetimes surprising you, if that’s what it takes.” Aziraphale speaks so solemnly that it tiptoes the line between devastatingly lovely and utterly comidial, and Crowley loves him for it. Loves him for all of him. </p><p>Something shimmers in Aziraphale face, and the dark weight Crowley had laid upon him all these weeks crumbles into star dust as he says, “I am so glad you know we’re here together.” </p><p>It is such a simple thing to know and such a dangerous thing to lose. The most important fact in history.</p><p>“We are,” Crowley says, breathless. “Lucky bastards, us.” </p><p>He leans forward to taste reality once more. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Let me know what you thought/yell at me for all I've done to you. This fic has been on my todo since the summer vacation and I'm so glad finally got in a place to finish it and show it to yall &lt;3 I've got other good omens fic on the list so any responses to this will really help me motivate myself, bc I somehow have the idea in my head that I'm too late to write for this fandom anymore? Brains are weird man.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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